


Body Shots

by i_am_therefore_i_fight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stripper!Dean, bisexual!Sam, general drunkenness and disorderly conduct
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_therefore_i_fight/pseuds/i_am_therefore_i_fight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brady gets Sam a present for his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Shots

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Wincest and dancing."
> 
> Originally posted at http://i-am-therefore-i-fight.tumblr.com/post/103711884843/body-shots.

This was a terrible idea, Sam tries to tell himself again, eyes following the gyrations of “Gene’s” hips as the dancer rides the pole in the center of the stage like he’s actually getting off on this. And (head tossed back, lips parted, eyes barely open to slits, movements slow and inescapably sensual) maybe he is.

Brady leans in close to his left ear, smirking. “You like?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, trying not to give away the stiff fullness of his cock in his jeans. Even though he appreciates how supportive his friends have been ever since his tentative confession of bisexuality, and he’s glad they all decided to go out for his birthday, there’s no denying that Brady knows exactly how to make him feel like a dumb, blushing virgin who gets hot from watching an attractive guy dance in his underwear, no matter the occasion.

“It gets better,” Brady says with a wink.

—-

Jess is chortling wickedly, and she won’t tell him where they’re going.

“Just keep your eyes covered.”

“They are.”

“No peeking.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re gonna love this, Sam.”

He’s getting more and more nervous the more people keep telling him how much he’s gonna love this. It feels like they’re playing a joke on him.

Jess stops walking, and drops his elbow. “Okay. Open up!”

He does, and the breath sticks in his throat.

That beautiful male dancer from before is lying on his back on a high table, arms stretched over his head and crossed at the wrists, that same passive expression on his face–eyes open only to slits, chest barely rising and falling with each breath. Which is good, because Brady’s already pouring half a dozen shots of liquor into pretty little colored glasses, and Sam can see what his plan is–and he has no doubt that if “Gene” accidentally tips over any of the glasses, Brady will make Sam lick up the spill. From Gene’s crotch, if necessary.

“Happy birthday, birthday boy,” Jess says in his ear. She pats his arm and steps back.

Sam can do nothing but watch as Brady sets colored glasses in a careful line down Gene’s torso, starting at the hollow of his throat and ending at the very center of his pelvis, just before the soft bulge in his shamelessly minimal shorts.

Brady steps back. “Have at it, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam,” Sam says automatically, unable to tear his gaze away from the breathtaking sight on the table in front of him.

He takes a step forward, and, almost like a flinch, Gene closes his eyes. The dancer’s holding his breath now; Sam can tell from the way his chest is suspended, shot glosses trembling just slightly with the tension of his taut belly.

 _It’s okay,_ Sam wants to tell him.  _I’m not gonna be weird or try to cop a feel or anything. This wasn’t even my idea, it’s my stupid friends’. You don’t have to do this._

At the same time, he wants to say,  _I think you’re beautiful and I’m jealous that other people get to look at you the way I’m looking at you now_.

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead he leans over, very near the first shot glass, and whispers under the ache of the bass: “Hi.”

Gene’s eyes flicker open, and Sam is taken aback by their  _greenness_ , by how strong and genuine the color is under the club’s multicolored strobe lights. Gene looks taken aback, too–surprised to find Sam’s face so close, maybe, or surprised to be addressed when he’s supposed to be playing a piece of furniture, something that people hang their fantasies on and expect to remain still and quiet while they stand back and admire.

 _Thanks for letting me do this_ , Sam wants to say, but instead he says, “I like your freckles.”

Gene  _does_ have nice freckles–a beautiful golden smattering of them, maybe more under the makeup he’s undoubtedly wearing to cover up any flaws or blemishes, freckles included.

Gene’s eyes search his face for a moment, flicking back and forth in something that’s almost alarm,  _what do you want, why are you saying this_ –and then he relaxes.

“Thanks,” he whispers back, voice rough and husky and warm like whiskey, not at all what Sam expected this porcelain figurine of a man to sound like. “I made ‘em myself.”

That makes Sam laugh, and he props his elbow on the table, smiling down into Gene’s face–and Gene has an eyebrow cocked, now, and the corner of his mouth is twitching like maybe it wants to smile, and for a second, it  _almost_ feels like it’s just the two of them.

“What’s the hold up?” Brady yells.

Gene sighs and closes his eyes again, and Sam obligingly goes for the first shot glass, wishing he could hold Gene still with his hands and at the same time kind of wishing the Gene would spill something so Sam could lap it up from the concave sweetness of his belly button.

Sam hesitates for too long over the second glass, frozen with his face just inches from Gene’s perky nipples, only barely resisting the urge to dip the rest of the way down and just take one in his mouth, suckle and nip at it, which he definitely does not have permission to do. But they're  _right there_ , flushed and tight.

He takes the shot. He’s gonna need the courage.

He has to stop again when he gets to the belly button shot, because he can’t help thinking about how he’d like to massage the tension from those taut, thrumming ab muscles with his  _mouth_. If Gene could just get off, right here, hard and dirty, maybe then he would be looser, more relaxed, instead of looking like he’s afraid he’s going to shatter–or burst apart at the seams–any second.

When he gets to the pelvis shot, he is deeply gratified by the whiff of hot cock and the hard, ridged shape stretching the cloth of those soft, malleable shorts. Gene is not unaffected. And he’s trembling now more than ever.

Sam wants, so badly, to press a wet kiss into that taut belly, to lick a circle around the base of the colored shot glass. He wants to bury his face between Gene’s legs, pin his hips to the table and taste everything he has to offer.

He takes the last shot.

“Another round!” Brady shouts, and Sam licks his lips.

—-

It’s some hours later when Zach pukes his guts up in a urinal in the men’s bathroom, and Sam takes that as an indication that it’s time to go. He sends Zach and Becky home in a cab with Brady and calls another cab for himself and Jess.

“Hey!”

Sam turns from helping a wobbly Jess into the back of the cab, startled by the call–and sees none other than the male dancer jogging toward him, dressed very modestly in jeans, a black t-shirt, a jacket, and work boots.

Sam’s heart speeds up a little as the guy gets close. “Hi, Gene.”

“’t’s Dean,” the guy says, slowing to a walk as he approaches, then stopping right in front of Sam. “Gene is just my… You know.” He shrugs with one shoulder.

“Oh,” Sam says, and swallows. “I’m Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam thinks, from the quirk of his mouth, that it’s a joke. His heart does a little flip-flop anyway.

“What’s up?” Sam asks, thinking,  _Don’t just say I forgot my wallet. Tell me you had a good time. Tell me you enjoyed that as much as I did._

“I was just wondering, if. What your plans were. You know, for the rest of the night. Or whatever.” Dean fidgets, keeping his eyes fixed on the very edge of Sam’s face. “I’m off now. I thought you might wanna.” He drops his gaze to the ground, toeing something on the sidewalk with the tip of his boot. “Y'know. Or not.”

Sam wants to. He really, really wants to. But… “I can’t.”

He sees Dean’s face fall, sees the way Dean’s shoulders curve in defensively, and he tries to explain, fumbling his words out. “I just, I gotta get her home. She’s kinda, you know. And I gotta put her to bed, and. I just can’t, you know. I gotta.” He waves vaguely toward Jess and the cab, hoping it will make his point clearer.

Dean nods, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Right. I understand. Sorry, I thought you were–I didn’t realize. Most people who come to watch–” He breaks off, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I, uh. Hope you and your girl get home safe.”

“You too,” Sam says dumbly, but Dean didn’t wait for a response. He has already turned on his heel and is walking away, shoulders held stiffly erect, a beautiful illustration of the struggle to maintain dignity in the face of rejection.

That went wrong, somehow, Sam thinks, and tries to force his drunk brain to line the events up in order, show him where the disconnect was. Is Dean upset because Sam wants to get Jess home before he does anything else? But surely he doesn’t expect Sam to leave Jess alone?

_Hope you and your girl get home safe._

Oh. Oops.

“Wait!”

Dean stops, but he doesn’t turn around. It doesn’t matter. Sam jogs to his side, quickly circles around to his front.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he babbles, even though Dean is clearly already waiting. “I didn’t mean. Jess isn’t my girlfriend. She just, we’re roommates. I just have to get her home 'cause I can’t leave her here by herself, not 'cause we’re. 'Cause we’re not, you know? Really. I’m not. With anybody. Not Jess or… anybody.”

Dean’s still looking at him kind of coolly. Sam is determined to make him understand.

“Look. Tomorrow, alright? Tomorrow, you gotta call me. Here.” Without asking permission, he grabs for Dean’s hand, pulls a pen from his pocket, and positions Dean’s hand palm-up in the crook of his arm, squinting and trying to focus his vision as he writes his phone number in clumsy but careful strokes. After reading over it three times to make sure he’s written it correctly, he releases Dean’s hand with a triumphant expression, grinning a brilliant dimpled grin that invites Dean to share in his victory. “There. See?”

Dean stares at him for a long moment, hand frozen where Sam left it. Then he slowly puts it in his pocket without even looking at the number.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay.”

Something about that answer is dissatisfying to Sam. He doesn’t think Dean believes that he’ll answer the phone tomorrow.

Sam decides that a kiss would be just the thing to convince Dean of his earnestness. And, just like that, they’re kissing, Dean’s mouth soft and pliant under his, Dean’s face fine-boned and cool where it’s cupped in the warm palms of his hands.

When Sam finally gives him up and pulls back, Dean is blinking dazedly, his mouth open and bruised and hungry.

“Call me tomorrow,” Sam says urgently. “I’ll pick up. I promise.”

“Okay,” Dean says weakly, one hand fisting in Sam’s sleeve at his wrist, near where Sam is still holding Dean’s face in his hands.

“I gotta go,” Sam tells him, not wanting to let go but knowing that the taxi’s meter is running. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.” Dean’s hand slips from his sleeve as Sam drops his palms from Dean’s face.

“Okay,” Sam says, backing toward the car.

“Okay.”

“ 'Bye, Dean.”

“ 'Bye, Sam.”

Sam gets in the car, and he waves as they’re driving away. Dean raises his hand automatically in reply, sees the ink on his palm again, and quickly curls his fingers over it, tucking his fist back into his pocket.

“Tomorrow,” he says to himself, watching the taxi disappear down the road.


End file.
